


"He was NEVER a Bloody Courier Officer!"

by RogerStenning



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerStenning/pseuds/RogerStenning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dinner discussions of an unsafe nature are all part of the job...</p>
            </blockquote>





	"He was NEVER a Bloody Courier Officer!"

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Bujold_Ficathon_2013](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Bujold_Ficathon_2013) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> from betony11: A discussion among Miles's Vor contempories trying to figure what he really did when he was in ImpSec. Because they had gotten to know him well enough to see that being a courier officer would have allowed ImpSec to make the first known recording of spontaneous human combustion out of boredom.

# "He was NEVER a Bloody Courier Officer!" 

A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!

Copyright 2013, Roger Stenning.

***

This FanFic was inspired by the usual methodology: A visit from The Insane Plot Bunny and a prompt from the 2013 Bujold Ficathon!

Request by Anonymous  
Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold

Summary  
From betony11: A discussion among Miles's Vor contemporaries trying to figure what he really did when he was in ImpSec.  
Because they had gotten to know him well enough to see that being a courier officer would have allowed ImpSec to make the  
first known recording of spontaneous human combustion out of boredom.

***

Many thanks as usual, to my Beta Reading Team,  
Coalboy, Jekni, Philomytha, and Sharaith,  
without whom, this story would not have proper  
grammar or spelling, and would probably still be  
stuck on the keyboard!

***

Tannery base, while being an operational military base, was normally quiet at the weekends - the Space Forces tended to keep office hours when they could get away with it, and rather liked having weekends off. For those single officers stuck on base, it had become something of a tradition to gather at the Officers Mess on a Friday night, and have a 'Dining Night In' with their friends and comrades in arms.

"'Courier Officer', my altogether worked to the bone backside," observed Captain Anton Vortaganier. Glancing up from his brandy snifter to regard Lieutenant Voronov, and shaking his head with amusement, he carried on, "Not in a gazillion years, Rudi; not even if our sun went nova. Miles 'I'm incapable of sitting still' Vorkosigan? A bloody courier officer? I've more chance of winning the Escobaran Lottery, and those are sixty million to one odds!" He snorted loudly with a dismissive jerk of the head, and slung some more brandy down his throat, and glanced over to another of the officers. "Rather good stuff, this - where'd you find it, Feodor?"

Lieutenant Commander Feodor Vorvenskiiy leaned back into the overstuffed leather chair, and sighed contentedly. The Chicken Kiev, while being something of a cliché, had actually been properly prepared and cooked this time, and had hit the mark just so. The brandy was a nice ending to the evening. Picking up the bottle, he handed it over. "Earth. Been in the family for a few years, this one. It's from one of those distilleries in their French district \- I mean country - that've been around since before they even had regular interplanetary flight. This one was sold as a Château de Maelot twenty years old Napoleon Cognac; I've had it in the cellar for a couple of years, and when my Cousin the Count gave it to my Da, it was easily thirty years old even then. The date should be on the label; he gave us a crate of it, and very nicely it's aged too."

Regarding the contents of his glass, he sighed heavily, and looked contemplative. "As to Vorkosigan. Hmm. I tend to agree. That hyper little twit was NEVER a bloody courier officer. I was temporarily assigned, for the longest six months of my life, as a Space Forces courier officer - only the once, thank God - back when I was a newly minted lieutenant J.G., when one of the permanent couriers \- the poor sods - went down with that Illrician 'flu muck that did the rounds a decade or so back - remember that?" A couple of nods and affirmative grunts were issued from around the table, and Feodor continued, "I'd just had my broad-spectrum jab for that year, so I got roped in, between more proper military assignments, to do a tour of that stiflingly boring nonsense."

He snagged a refill of his snifter from the rapidly emptying bottle on the table, and continued. "The ImpSec couriers do the same stuff the regular forces couriers do, just with their own message and missive traffic to cart around the cosmos. It's frankly the biggest cop-out in Imperial Service you could imagine. You get issued a secure valise, which never, not even when you sleep, leaves your side - it's manacled there, to ensure just that - and you then get carted around the cosmos on the Imperial Mark to your destination - normally an embassy or consulate in the back of beyond - and back again, on the universe's biggest bungee cord. So, weeks of enforced boredom, between planets, and sod all to do. Then, when you get there, you have a day on-planet - if you're lucky - where you're sitting on your - ahem - boney backside," he tipped a nod and a fast grin to Anton, who smirked in response, "And then you're off again, back to your home base post, to do it all again."

He sipped some more brandy, and continued speaking. "God, my backside damn near had calluses on it after six months of that male bovine droppings. Vorkosigan would have crawled through an airlock just for something interesting to do, trust me. I was actually given a military comconsole correspondence-style course in communications equipment and protocols, with orders to complete and pass it before I got back. Hence my current assignment here as a Comms Officer, thank God. I'd be completely round the bloody twist if I were still doing Courier duty. Lord knows how the guys on permanent Courier Duty keep their sanity. Captain 'Twisty' a courier? Not if hell froze over, and Mad Yuri was back on the throne!" A round of wry chuckles greeted that pronouncement.

Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Vidal Vorbonton piped up, "I've read his official biography in _'Vorrutyers'_ ," he was referring to the annually published book, tome-like in size, it listed anyone who was anyone in the Empire who possessed three certain letters in front of their names, and the really notable people to pay attention to who didn't. He blinked, as every pair of eyes around the conclave suddenly focussed, however inebriated, on him. _Me and my big gob. Why the hell didn't I stay schtum?!_ Swallowing, he continued.

"Anyhow, it lists what he's publicly avowed to have done. There isn't much. Son of Viceroy Admiral The Count etcetera, Weather Officer at Lazkowski Base for three months or so, then transferred to ImpSec as a Galactic Affairs Courier, promoted on schedule on such-and-such a series of dates, retired medically as a Captain, and now one of the ImpAuds. But, do you recall the screening of his investiture in Vorhartung Castle, when he was wearing his House Uniform? He wore his decorations. All of them. Any of you see that broadcast?" A couple of the others nodded and, buoyed on, he continued.

"There was more chest confetti than even the Cetas could probably find, looked like damn near his entire left chest was covered, bigger even that the Chief of the Imperial Staff, but his _'Vorrutyers'_ listing only mentions six decorations, none of them Valour-related, all of them routine theatre or special event medals. But I swear, on a pile of thousand Mark notes this high -" he indicated a point over his head - "that he was wearing not only a Cetagandan Order Of Merit on a ribbon around his neck, but a Marilacan Dagoola Campaign Star as well - and that's the only gong in the known universe that's painted Olive Green - and _that_ was only awarded to those involved in the breakout on Dagoola IV - no-one else has ever been awarded it." He took a swig of his lager, and continued.

"The only reason I know that, is because the Investiture was so bloody boring, I went channel hopping, and landed upon the end of ' _The Greatest Escape'_ , that vid they made of the Dagoola IV breakout, and pop! There was the gong, described right in an end-piece of the end credits of the vid. I had to check, but he was definitely wearing it in his installation. It's in the official vid record. So how in all creation did he get it?"

Surprisingly to him, there was a considerable number of nodding of heads in agreement around the table at his observations.

"It's a bloody good question; very well done, young Vidal. There's hope for you yet - well, there is, as long as certain ears don't hear what you watch on the vid in your off hours!" observed Captain Leonid Vorontsov, who then winked broadly to Vorbonton as everyone else shared a round of good-natured laughs. Vidal's ears turned a little bit red.

Vorontsov continued, "Just as well we don't have cockroaches in this mess, eh?" He was on fairly safe grounds there: Imperial Security personnel - even the officers - had their own messing facilities, and were under orders to keep to them, even if they were said to be staid and boring affairs, with little or no social eventing. 'Bad luck for them, all the more fun for us', the saying went. He waved to the barman, and raised his glass, now almost empty. The barman nodded, and reached for a fresh one.

Leonid, his immediate task completed, returned his gaze to his friends, and summarised what was known. "So, heir apparent to his father's District, started out as the Met-O at Camp Permafrost, then suddenly transferred to ImpSec, where he served something like nine years in Galactic Affairs as a Courier Officer for Illyan's Insects, and now an Imperial Auditor, with far too much chest confetti to explain in rational and unclassified circles. To say that this is a bit of a mystery, is like saying the Big Bang was a party balloon. There's much more to this character than meets the eye." He paused as the barman, a Corporal Steward by his insignia, supplied him with his fresh drink, a pale ale from his District, that he rather enjoyed. "Thanks, Corporal." He turned his attention back to the group. "So, any ideas as to what he's actually been and gone and done?"

One of the group sat a bit straighter all of a sudden. "Wait a bloody minute. Vidal: _When_ did you say he transferred to ImpSec?"

"What's got you, PP?" asked Leonid.

"Give me a moment, Leo. I think I'm onto something here." Major (Imperial Marines) Paulo Popolomentus - PP to his friends - asked Vorbonton directly. "Do you recall _when_ Vorkosigan was transferred to Cockroach Central?"

"Um. About ten years back? He'd only been commissioned for a few months, I think."

"Oh, hell. That's what I thought. This just got bloody interesting with a capital _Oh Shit_." he glanced around the group, "Anyone remember General Metzov?" Blank stares accompanied his question. "Thought not. OK, some history, then. Bear with me on this, it'll become clear. Metzov was the base commandant of Camp Permafrost. My Regimental Commander, the Colonel, had been the Liaison Officer to the General Staff way back when he was a slimy new Captain, which is why I know about the man - Metzov was discussed in detail as a person _not_ to be emulated under any circumstances. Seems that Metzov's career was on the wane, as he'd made a fair few marginal calls that worked out somewhat badly, to say the least. Permafrost was his last chance not to screw up. He blew it." PP took a deep breath and, sitting on the edge of his seat, theorised aloud.

"I just realised, after what young Vidal just said, that Vorkosigan was there the same time Metzov was. Now, Metzov was court martialled and cashiered, which was noted in the Vorbarr Sultana Gazette at the time; from what I've later heard and read, there was some kind of Special Weapons mishap just before this, and given that Camp Permafrost isn't a glow-in-the-dark glass bowl, it's probably safe to conclude that it wasn't a bucket of instant sunshine that went pop, thus it's a good bet that it was either a chem or bio nasty that went pop. While non-officer ranks and events aren't Gazetted, it _is_ mentioned in newspapers in the districts that those guys come from, and a few come from Greek families, like me. We're a relatively small community, us Greekies, and bad news travels fast. I remember a number of enlisted techie types being crap-canned from the ground forces at around the same time that Metzov was kicked out, and rumours were that they'd refused a local emergency order - but coincidentally, it's the same bloody time that Vorkosigan's listed as being both the Met-O at Permafrost, and then in Galactic Affairs at ImpSec. What do you reckon the lot are related?"

Shocked expressions and a few muttered _Oh shit!_ utterances met this assessment.

"Twisty' a spook? Never. Illyan'd never have had it. He's the one who made sure that all the Galactic Affairs operatives had to be able to be invisible - Vorkosigan's anything BUT invisible!" uttered Vorvenskiiy with conviction.

Paulo leaned further forward on the edge of his chair. "Don't you see? That's the beauty of it! It all fits! The dates, the events, the fact that no-one in their right sodding minds would suspect him of being anything other than a hideous gargoyle in a uniform, only suited to the most routine of tasks, and easily shuffled off the battlefield, out of sight on - supposedly \- courier duty, until he creeps up behind you with a knife and hamstrings you with a single swipe! The perfect covert operative that Illyan could have hoped to have in his back pocket! No-one'd give him a second glance!" He sat back in his chair, and threw the remains of his drink down his throat, signalling the barman for more. "It was bloody genius, is what it was!"

"There's a problem with all that, though, y'know," observed Vorvenskiiy.

"Oh?"

"Those gongs on his chest. I remember the broadcast young Vidal mentioned. Fully half of them were combat awards. Row and a half were bad luck badges. I read somewhere that his bones are brittle, caused by that Soltoxin attack on his Ma and Da before he was born. Had to go through induction at the Academy with his legs in titanium braces. No way was that boy ever in actual combat. Not a hope in hell. I reckon most of those gongs were his Da and Granda's."

"So what about the Marilacan Dagoola Campaign Star?"

"Forgery. Has to be. Only thing that makes sense."

"Would've been picked up by General Allegre. He'd have put the kybosh on those gongs as being completely illegal."

"All right then, remembering that the Emperor is his best friend, he could have had a classified waiver to allow it, so as to, oh, I dunno, _add to the gravitas and status of an Imperial Auditor as a force to be reckoned with_ , or some such baloney?"

"Have you listened to yourself lately?" Anton piped up, snorting mild amusement. "Come on, the Emperor, friend or not, would never in a million years sanction such a falsehood - especially in front of the entire bloody Empire on Vid - it'd be picked up in a heartbeat - and considering the probity of the Marilacan Dagoola Campaign Star, do you think the Marilacans would keep silent? Not a chance - they'd be up in arms over fake use of it!" he waved a meaty finger in the air, "That gong, and by that reasoning, all the others he wore, have to be the genuine article - including and especially that Cetagandan Order Of Merit!" He thumped the table with his finger for emphasis, "The thice-be-damned Cetas have gone to war for less, and you bloody well know it!"

Taking a deep breath, he calmed down a shade. "Sorry. Got a bit caught up in all of this. Anyhow. The question now, is how the hell did he manage to either receive, or win, those bloody gongs, without it showing up on the vid before last Wednesday?" He grinned, self-deprecatingly, "And yes, All right, I saw the investiture - and the vid - too!"

"Very well, then," commented the previously silent Lieutenant Commander Lord Henri Vorwyn, a thin, tall, intense-looking man, who was listed in _Vorrutyers'_ as being heir to his father's Countship, he worked as the base Public Relations Officer, and was also listed as his fathers' preferred voice in his Districts' Criminal Court of Appeal. "To revise and extend. So, if all his gongs are the genuine article, then he got them in the usual ways that men get them: Either by being in the right place, at the right time, or the wrong place, at the wrong time. Which means a couple of things, assuming that we're reading them right. First," he ticked off fingers on his left hand, one at a time, "That he was instrumental in bringing down Metzov, for whatever reason for that there may have been, although it's debatable whether or not he was ImpSec at the time that happened. Second, that he was in all the places those gongs and bad luck badges infer without getting himself killed, maimed, spindled, or otherwise discombobulated. Third, that knowledge of his presence at those places has been suppressed for whatever reason, call it operational security if you have to; and finally, fourth, as a result of and because of all of the above, that he's a spook, or at least was one up to his first appointment as a temporary Imperial Auditor. Any dissenting views thus far?"

Stony and contemplative silence met the question.

He continued. "Fine. So he was a spook. He was involved in more shady, underhanded, back-stabbingly sneaky, and nefarious operations than we care or want to know about, that thanks to him, and others most decidedly unlike him, the Empire's still intact, working just fine, and that the Emperor, God Save Him," he raised his half-full glass briefly, "Is still on the Throne and in one piece, and finally, that we're still able to have a good debate on the above on a Friday night, when we should actually be getting potted watching sports and trying to get laid."

He raised another finger in the air, "Oh, and that we never, not ever, not even on a dark night when it's blowing a blizzard outside, do we ever want to piss him the hell off." He nodded the finality of the point. "May I," he continued, "therefore call for a vote, gentlemen, on the motion before us: That ImpSec, by making Captain Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan a sneaky, underhanded, thoroughly nefarious and evil-minded sod, saved the Empire from an example of spontaneous human combustion! All those in favour?"

_Fin_


End file.
